Oben "The Iron Knuckle" Barvor
The land has been tilled, and the seeds now fill the soil. The seasons pass, and another yearly harvest comes. Surely, the biggest bounty yet; for every man, perhaps one – no, two-hundred pounds of produce! After the ships have been loaded up with the annual yield, the workhands, pierced with fatigue, shamble back to their huts. A cold and barren season passes; the arms of the laborers tightly hold the malnourished body that carries them. Not a scrap of ration that was born of the efforts of many would be seen this year, nor any year before or thereafter. On the nameless farming island of Mulya, a young boy had been toiling with the countless other “workers” for his whole life; and for what? So that the Nobles may reap the fruits of his labor? They say it is “justice” and “payment” for the crimes of his forefathers. He is one of the forgotten ancestors of a man who would never live to carry out his very own sentence. He is Oben Taler, great-great-grandson of Aendaren Taler, a conspirer involved in the Riots of Mulya nearly two centuries ago. Mulya, as the world sees it, is a bastion of wealth and prosperity, teeming with nobles, barons, and other such well-to-do folk. Thriving off of the hard work of others, most are kept unaware of the hardships endured by me and my fellow workers. In fact, most surely know not of the foundations upon which their lives have been established for centuries. . . . The land has been burned, and the bodies now fill the soil. The gulls pass, and another large wave beats the ship. Surely, the biggest bounty yet; for every man, perhaps one – no, two-thousand gold! After the ships were loaded up with the last of the workers, the freed men and women, pierced with worry, move back to their makeshift quarters. A cold and bleak fortnight passes; the hands of the laborers embrace the warmth of the new, heavier body that carries them. Not a scrap of ration that was born of the efforts of many would be seen this year by the Nobles, nor any year thereafter. On the small island of Bagship Rock, in the town of Piersten, a teenage boy had been toiling alone, finding unskilled jobs and trades for the rest of his life; and for what? To carry out the rest of his life without aim? They say he lacked the skill and talent to do the work that his ancestors may one day do. He is one of the countless fugitives of the law; one of the many who might never carry out their sentences. He is Oben; a boy, unfazed by the brutalities he had committed so many years ago. Bagship Rock, as the world sees it, is a humble island, teeming with farmers, craftsmen, and other such conventional folk. Thriving off of their own hard work, many are kept unaware of the hardships that exist in the world. In fact, all surely know not of the foundation upon which my life had been built on, over the past 15 years. . . . A young man, Oben “The Iron Knuckle” Barvor stands at the foot of a fresh grave, incapable of being moved by the loss of the only man in the world who ever showed him kindness; the man who had showed the young boy the only love he had ever known. Urdyn Barvor, a carpenter of Piersten, had spent his remaining years caring for the mysterious young boy; the very same boy who he had found slumbering one morning in the nearly-finished abode he had been constructing. . . . While he hadn’t given Oben a proper home, Urdyn did teach the boy how to survive by his own hand. Whether it be simpler things like building a fire to keep warm, or even some of the complicated intricacies of craftsmanship, Urdyn shared his wisdom with Oben with nothing to be gained. It didn’t take long for Oben to build a simple home of his own, even doing it without any help from the man he had now considered a father. As the young Oben grew in both age and skill, he began to work hand-in-hand with Urdyn, taking up the study of business and trade as well. Taking care of the boy wasn’t easy, however. It wasn’t rare to see Oben picking fights with the local lads of the village, or attempting to leave town and seek some grand adventure elsewhere; actions that Urdyn had always put a stop to. In truth, Urdyn had grown fond of the boy. Oben however, despite his gratification for his mentor, his savior, his father, had never felt at home in Piersten. Somewhere, there were others who had shared his pain and suffering; others that deserved the chance of freedom that he had also been given. Under the cover of night, Oben had boarded a local trading ship in an attempt to stow away once more, this time to the city of Bayhurst. Fate, unfortunately, was not on his side this time. On the third night at sea, as the crew had been sleeping, the ship had been boarded and taken over by a group of pirates. A select few who hadn’t been killed were to be taken prisoner. Oben had awoken in the ship’s cargo hold where he had been hiding, as a trio of pirates had reached it to claim their prize. Without a weapon, it seemed to Oben that he would surely be killed; there was no chance that Oben would allow himself to become a prisoner once again. Oben then did the only thing he knew how to do; fight to survive, even if it be with his bare fist. Fueled by rage and the primal will to survive, he charged towards the group, catching them by surprise. Barreling forth and tossing aside into the first bandit, Oben swung a mighty fist at another, knocking him to the ground, unconscious. The last standing bandit readied his weapon and shield, and let loose a forceful vertical chop as Oben skillfully dodged to the side, only to land a powerful blow the pirate’s side. Taking advantage of the strike, Oben set free a flurry of fists that rendered the pirate as nothing more than a bloody pulp. The unarmed bandit that had been tossed aside lay unmoving, fearing for his life as he watched Oben mercilessly deface his comrade. Oben grabbed the curious looking shield as he had left the hold; its unusual polish and refinement was not to be expected in the hands of such simple pirates. The edges of the unscratched face had been marked with strange runes; and indecipherable language to Oben, one that he had never seen in his life. A strange power lay dormant in it, almost as if it were waiting to be tapped by an even greater power. Continuing to fight his way back to the ship’s deck, he was able to free several of the ship’s crew and easily kill off the rest invaders with their help. In an act of their deepest gratitude, the crew granted the right to commandeer the pirate ship to Oben. Oben, lacking the appropriate skill to sail a ship, refused their request, and instead only asked for a fraction of the monetary value of the ship, and to be returned home. While his adventure didn’t take him far, he had undoubtedly done what he had set out to do by freeing the ship’s crew. However, Oben realized that even in his short-lived travel, he very well could have met his end without so much as a word to Urdyn. At the very least, he owed Urdyn a goodbye before he had set out on his own journey. Oben had arrived back in Piersten on an early morning, alongside the crew, and with the tales of his bravery. Oben “The Iron Knuckle” Barvor was welcomed back as a hero to Piersten, with the riches of money and his trusty shield and axe. No sooner had he made it to Urdyn’s dwelling, only to face what cruel sense of justice the world once again had to show him. The messy bed had housed a still body, that lie motionless despite the prodding and calling that Oben had given it. For the first time in his life, Oben wept. . . . “I never thought it’d come to this. Not like this, anyways.” The aged face of The Iron Knuckle scanned over the empty tables from behind the bar counter. It wasn’t a sight he was used to, it being so empty in here. Maybe it was time to shut the place down and retire; surely everyone on the island had payed visit to the “Pirate Slayer, the Hero of the Insane Sea, the Legendary Iron Knuckle himself!” The excitement of his deed was starting to wear off; his five minutes of fame was certainly up. “And where is that damn girl? The only one who even works here, and I still can’t count on her.” Oben walked over towards the “elf-girls” normal spot; a simple countertop, adjacent to the fireplace. As his finger had traced the wood upon where she had always sat, he found himself staring at the old shield he had hung over the mantle. There certainly was more to that shield than she’d ever know; more than he’d ever tell her, anyways. “It’s funny,” he thought. A trifling twenty years had passed, “and yet it only felt like last night that I stepped onto that ship… Only last night it felt like I…” Oben’s thoughts moved back to the present, as he found his hand lying upon the dust that had formed on the glossy shield face of his Sawdisk, as he had called it. He was too old to seek its origin now, adventuring was a young man’s game. Nobody on Bagship had any idea where it could have come from. Despite the years of inattention, its face still maintained the beauty and sheen of the day that it had come into Oben’s possession. Maybe one day, it will find its use in the world, as Oben might find his. . . . “It was those damn dwarves. Ever since they opened shop, they’ve been nothing but trouble. This time they’ve gone too far. By my blood, they’ll see their justice.” Oben walked past the sympathetic onlookers; over the smoldering remains, charred wood, upon the ruined ground. His boots seemed almost guided, until the stepped upon… The only possession he prized, the only reminder he had of his past, his Sawdisk. Kicking aside the still-hot embers, Oben picked up the shield and stared at its ever-magnificent and still untouched face. It was unnatural, certainly, but perhaps this was his call to find out what it had truly meant. Where its place was in the world, and where his was. The “elf-girl” rushed over to his side, casting a sad gaze to Oben. Such a genuine look of pity, but why? This wasn’t her place to feel sorrow, towards him or his bar. This wasn’t her place. Oben gathered his strength, and walked home. What else could be done? Even with what wealth he had saved, there’s no way he could replace the sheer stock he had built up throughout the years. Yet… Oben felt no grief, no sorrow, no loss. “No… I’m too old for this… I always knew this wasn’t my place. But if I don’t find out what this is, who will? It can’t be trusted with anybody else. Nobody will understand it. Not like I do. It’s not like I have -” Oben’s thought was cut short, as he approached his simple home; the same home he had lived in for nearly forty years. Some called it dingy, and worn down, but to him, it was the only place he’s ever called home. The elf-girl was standing there, waiting for him. If there’s anything that could have surprised even him, it was her.